The Skeleton Key
by Negare
Summary: Amidst the turmoil of geo-political unrest on Earth, the Autobots find it a difficult path to navigate in order to investigate Decepticon shenanigans, and the growing concern that something dangerous lurks in the shadows. Meanwhile, Jazz investigates a shocking war crime, leading to a revelation that will rock the already fractured nations.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's NB:** While essentially G1, it will pull characters in together who never interacted in the cartoons. I tend to base my fanfictions in the G1 Cartoon/Comics [80s/IDW/MTMTE] type thing than say that abortion of a movie verse, Animated, Prime, RiD 2015 et al.

Likewise, I like to take liberties with individual character timelines, so you'll see Rodimus & Optimus, Ironhide and Springer, post a [1986] movie plot. For all intents and purposes, the movie events did happen, just in a different year than stated in that movie. How they came to all be alive at this point? Who the hell knows? Magic? I like to leave somethings unsaid and you can insert your own opinion. I may possibly throw some one, two sentence mention somewhere.

However, this is very AU in the human sense, the geo-political make up of this world is not what we have now, not what is seen in any other comic form. It'll be self-explanatory as the story waddles along. I'll give full credit [and plugs!] it when I reach it, but I have taken inspiration from other fiction.

Speaking of humans, I hate "Mary-Sues", and I don't like overly OC centric stuff, so while there are certainly human OCs, they exist as plot devices and narrative drivers as opposed to being any kind of protagonist. Where they appear to have a bit more attention, it is just my lazy way of inserting narrative about the overall political situation on earth. Also, regarding Daniel Witwicky, I've altered his birth year to coincide with my altered timelines.

I haven't written in years, mostly cos of computer changes, Word updates, flash-drives in storage units, and my inherent laziness. I'm jumping back in cos I feel like I'm being dumbed down by the stupid people I constantly have to deal with in life. Hehe.

Usual disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, any of the trademarked Transformer characters, I make no profit from this, this is written for my enjoyment and literary improvement *coughcoughdyslexiccoughcough*, as well as for whoever cares to read them.

Not suitable for children under 16, but this is the internet, so I know no one cares. Violence, profanity, sexual references.

oooOOooo

 **One**

It was a dreary place, unsettlingly quiet with the perhaps overly clichéd creepiness of the stench of death… or was that just cheap flowers rotting on infrequently tended graves.

To his shame, at least mentioned inwardly, he hadn't been here since they'd been laid into the cold earth to slowly rot away in expensive boxes. Strangely, he never felt that the funeral was the worst day of his life. That had been when his mother had died.

Spike was at home, taking a break after a rather busy run of diplomatic missions and explicitly boring meetings. Travelling around the universe with giant alien metal people could get quite exhausting! He loved it though. As a kid, his view of the future was simple, maybe even bleak by some standards. He didn't apply himself at school, always acting up, whether that was due to his inability to understand the finer points of English or the harder points of math, he really only went to eat his lunch. His mother had walked out when he was just a toddler, for years he was under the impression she'd died – turned out she'd just taken off with another partner. A woman named Sally. 1970s America, Protestant, white, Sparkplug felt it less embarrassing to tell his kid and anyone who asked, she was dead.

From there young Spike accepted his comfortably poor upbringing, his working-class father, and his lack of academic prowess meant an equally bland life lay ahead. In the years to come, he'd reflex with a good manner of amazement, and was indescribably grateful that these strange cybernetic creatures would see fit to include him in their lives. To call him friend. That friendship, rightly or wrongly, put Spike on the fast track to fame, fortune and service of Earth.

It earnt him a fair number of enemies as one would logically conclude. Mostly Decepticon at first, but over time anti-robot groups started gaining traction, usually after some of the higher causality events. There were the politicians and "experts", both snobby in class and authority. Who was this mutt of a man to represent Earth? Uneducated, poor, no family of note. Sure, Carly brought with her a rather decent standard of smarts, looks and pedigree, but she avoided the spot light, wanting to raise her son without too much public scrutiny.

Maybe the lesbian mother would have won him some brownie points if he'd ever been able to find her.

He was apparently supposed to be alone. Relaxing. Maybe working on one of his models. Perhaps digging up his sorry garden, filled with soggy potatoes and brown lettuces. Instead, he ended up kicking off his shoes grabbing a glass of milk, which he took one sip from, slumped into his favourite and sparsely used arm chair, and drifted off to sleep.

To her credit, the assassin wasn't cruel. He never heard her enter. Never heard her stand in front of him. She walked with a soft and morbidly graceful step. Raised the silenced gun and fired three times. One between the eyes, which of course was fatal, and two more into the heart for good measure.

Her shots were precise, perfect. Megatron had choose her well.

The woman seemed to have hesitated after the kill, she hadn't left immediately. She'd laid a coaster over the glass of milk. It'd been the middle of summer, the evening had been hot, humid. Was strange to think about it, some perfect little killer more worried about a glass of milk going rank than the fact she was leaving a body to rot, to bloat. Of course, she was well aware he'd be discovered soon.

She would have noticed the family photos, maybe something had stirred in that dead conscience that drove her to want to protect family from discovering him. She covered his face with a tea-towel. These small gestures took time, both in thought and in practice.

That's what killed his mother.

The murderess had no intention of targeting anyone else, as she left via the back door she found herself face to face with the blond, whom, of course, had no chance. As frighteningly effective as she was with a gun, she was even more so with blades. Carly dropped her groceries and before she could even lift her hands in any form of offense, or defence, the woman had slit her throat. The action was swift, clean and on target.

Carly dropped to the ground without ceremony, and the woman hastened her exit.

She'd had no desire to kill the ambassador's wife, she sure as hell didn't want to take out any kids. Gone as quickly and as quietly as she'd come.

The neighbour had seen Carly pull up in the drive, and then headed over to hand her a key to the house. The woman was going away for the weekend and Carly had been happy to offer her services as a cat feeder and plant waterer. The woman never saw the killer leave, but obviously discovered Carly. Thankfully a retired nurse, found a faint pulse, applied pressure and managed to one handed use her seriously out-dated cell phone to call for help.

The genius died a few days later in hospital, she was able to type a description, and then when it became clear to the investigators whom the assassin was, she was able to point to the photo.

The woman wasn't exactly a face in the crowd.

Despite assistance from the Autobot medics, Carly didn't win the fight.

She was buried with her husband, just a week after the invasion.

Carly's parents had retired to England, and that's where Daniel ended up, despite his loud protests. He was somewhere between child and man, a 14-year-old who was only just trying to find the way to combine a normal human life with one that involved the Autobots and their various antics.

He'd had numerous, oftentimes very dangerous adventures with them, and didn't want to lose that. It came with the territory. Friendship with these entities was never going to be safe. In the end Optimus recognised the harm they'd unintentionally brought into this family's life. Sparkplug had been killed by Ravage years before, there'd been multiple and oftentimes serious injuries, both physical and emotional, and now this young chap was an orphan because… No one was sure why Megatron had only now decided to target so brutally the Ambassador. There was certainly nothing new in his conduct that would directly affect the 'cons. Unless this was just Megatron fulfilling long made promises of revenge? But why now? Too many questions and not enough answers.

Initially it wasn't so bad, there were a few Autobots stationed in England, nowhere near where his grandparents lived, but they weren't Autobots he'd ever met, and that didn't change. Technology obviously gave him considerable opportunities for communication. Over the years, as was to be expected, teenage behaviour drove him more to a circle of human friends, his occasions with the Autobots recounted far too many times to now keep any interest. For all intents and purposes, by the time he reached University, he was just a normal guy who'd just shrug when people, upon hearing his unusual surname, asked if he was related to the murdered Ambassador and his wife.

So here he was now, standing over the graves of his parents. They were scruffy, moss covered plots. He wondered how long it took for Autobots to stop visiting. Perhaps odd looks from other visitors unsettled them, perhaps feelings of guilt compelled to much shame to want to step foot here, maybe they just didn't care? They'd had millions of years to get used to the feelings that came with death of loved ones, perhaps it was simply a case of "meh, same slag, different cycle".

In any case, Daniel lowered himself so as he knelt on the soggy earth, he started pulling up the weeds, brushing aside stray bits of paper, a random plastic flower, it's pedals faded and teared. He sat back on his feet and gave an audible sigh.

"Hi mum, hey dad. Sorry I haven't visited".

He felt a bit odd speaking to them. He'd never had an awful lot of contact with religious concepts, didn't believe in ghosts or any after-life consciousness. Seeing no one was within ear shot, he shrugged and decided to just go with it.

"So, I've been really busy. Mum, your dad died a few months back, but I guess you know that. Your mum is kinda nuts now. Your sister got her into some cushy rest home. I got a job. It's not what I wanted, and it's not in a great place, but it'll do for now. I drove past the house. It's pretty shabby looking now. The big front window box has been boarded over, and several of the upstairs windows are broken. I guess the collapse hit the owners hard. I did hear Mrs. Tanning broke her hip and ended up in hospital. She couldn't afford treatment, so she got euth'd. Arcee told me, it was about a year after you left, I'm not sure, it came up in the last conversation I had with her. Her house, wow, looks like a crack den now. The whole street is bad. Several are burnt out, including the Dennleys. Sad, huh? I dunno what happened to them, though."

He rubbed the back of his head, he'd certainly inherited his father's overly shaggy locks. He needed a cut, but money was tight, styled cuts were a luxury, most just got it all off. And where he was going to be working, he'd probably be the best groomed there. It was well past his shoulders, greasy, probably a little too much dandruff. Despite feeling terribly awkward over the whole thing, talking to a stone in a field of stones and bones, something else, something tiny, something felt right.

Didn't stop him letting rip with another sigh, though.

"Anyho, about the Autobots. I haven't had much to do with them, since, well, you know... I talked with Arcee for probably only a year after I moved, but life just got in the way, I guess. I know about them as much as any other schmuck knows, just what's on TV. I think Prime gave a speech to the UN, and the EDC has increased its range in the solar system with Autobot assistance. Dad, your replacement is a stuffy old white guy, Chechyan, I saw Rodimus roll his optics as he stood in the background of him giving some speech. Heh".

Daniel chuckled a little longer at the thought. An optic-roll from a Transformer was incredibly hard to catch by humans, without irises or pupils there was nothing to follow. Of course, if you knew what you were looking for, you'd catch that tiny pin prick of light, in the centre, and a little brighter than the rest of the optic. Spike had taught that him that. A lot of time around the Twins, was his response to his son's enthusiasm at learning something new about their metallic friends.

"I got a place easy enough, it's a bit of a dingy neighbourhood, but I guess that's to be expected. It's not a rich school, guys".

He looked down at his hands, covered in bits of moss and dirt, a soft wave of depression crept across him. It'd been something he'd battled with for years. As obvious as it was a concept to him, he actively hid it and generally people thought he was fine. His grandparents were kind people, if not a little neurotic. He felt like a burden to them, of course. Here they were, entering what should have been the most comfortable years of their lives, their daughters now adults, successful women. His aunt was a bit nutty though. Highly intelligent, likely Asperger's of some description, he'd overheard his mother saying once. Never had a partner, no children, unless you counted eight cats. Of course, the several PhDs in molecular biology, chemistry and advanced physics offset any claims she was stupid. They'd sold up their house in America and were heading to England, his grandfather's ancestral home. It was a nice little place they settled into. His nan wanted to write, and the often-stormy beach front and neighbouring forest surrounding idyllic pastures offered ample inspiration. Now their youngest daughter was dead, her husband as well, and their wayward grandson, their only grandchild, was on their door step. Well, it hadn't been that swift or unannounced. A lot of conversations, a lot of paper trails and social workers and lawyers and everyone seemed to have an opinion. No one inquired what Daniel thought as he tried to accept the fact his parents were dead. His mother's last days were not pleasant, her body failing fast, starting to rot, was not an appropriate sight for a young teen.

Eventually decisions were made, his things were packed, goodbyes were said with a half-hearted shrug from the human, and he was on the plane between his two grieving elders to go to start a new life in a country he'd only ever heard about from his mother's two visits.

"I don't think I'm going to seek out the 'bots. If they contact me, I'll be polite, but they've just not a part of my life anymore. I hope that doesn't disappoint you, but I'm enjoying my life now, sure, it's boring, no giant battles, no shuttle flights across the galaxy, no nefarious alien plots to wipe us out. I like that I can just be a normal guy. I'm not scared anymore. I don't have nightmares any… well, occasionally, but that's because I've been watching too many zombie shows. Hehe. Mum, dad, I'm living with a peace that I didn't think I even needed".

The wind was starting to pick up now, a cluster of leaves was brushed over his lap without response from him.

"They never got that bitch, though".

A hoarse whisper, the anger in his core slipping out through it. Heavily punctuated. He cursed her.

He stood up slowly and regarded the grave stone for a moment.

"Well, I guess I better get going. I'll be able to come see you more often now. I'll bring some better cleaner next time, maybe some flowers or something. I dunno".


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Earthen weather being what it is, there was always a perceived stereotype that it was unpredictable and annoyingly violent, spawning frequent disasters or at the very least causing disruptive nuisance. It always appeared apparent to be one of the first questions asked by new transfers to the planet. Optimus sighed inwardly as he considered the overall blandness of the day, a muted down betrayal of Earth's meteorological reputation. It wasn't hot, nor was it cold, by human standards – even if those things varied greatly. He'd found Sparkplug was always a man who preferred, or simply stoically and without complaint, tolerated the cold. In the early days of their alliance he, and quite a few others, would find the man wandering about apparently aimless in the cooler parts of the structure. Spike would often mention he didn't much care for the chill to the point Bumblebee started carrying an extra jersey in sub-space for the kid. But youth, curiosity and the enthusiasm that came with it, seemed to pull his thoughts away from any externally unpleasant stimuli.

The room where they held the meetings of this security clearance was quite enclosed. No windows, one door and heavily restricted access protocols at that. Even when it wasn't in use, it couldn't just be accessed, as was to be expected out of fear of bugging. Speaking of which, the Prime watched Blaster finish up his sweep, who then gave a broad grin, said something to Jazz about KISS before plopping down a little too casually in his seat. Red Alert was fussing about something as he shuffled through his many, _many_ data-pads. Prowl sat dead-pan, as always, his expression never changing as he acknowledged the late arriving Kup.

"Too old to always be on time, lad".

He'd noticed the look, or at least the direction Prowl pointed his face plates.

Jazz just smirked, amused.

However, when Ironhide was involved, Kup didn't tend to bother too much about any dirty look he thought the statistician was holding behind the poker-face. Ironhide's clichéd tardiness was never an indication of his lack of concern over the importance of such meetings, nor did it express itself on the battlefield or in training. He just hated sitting in a room with one door, no windows, and Red Alert's blatant paranoia, thus, he always tried to cut it as close as possible to arriving. Although, at 1404 he was probably pushing it.

Prime gave himself the luxury of thinking about a chuckle.

The warrior-extraordinaire entered just as Prowl was standing to shut the door, a rather displeased look shone through his optics as the red bot strode in. Looking a little surly.

He clanged down in his seat, glanced at the clock on the wall, a decorative feature of sorts that they'd picked up from humans, very much unnecessary on account of their own internal chronometers. 1409 hours.

"Damn twins".

Was as much explanation it seemed anyone was going to get. Prowl made an inward note to follow this up.

"Are we ready to begin?"

Prime inquired.

ooOOoo

After two hours and fourteen minutes of what Rodimus considered processor-numbing boredom, which included Perceptor's almost intentionally lengthy spiel about energy production timetables; Red Alert's overly dramatic and undeserved paranoid ramblings about the western security perimeter being constantly breached by an angry, possibly rabid family of racoons; and Prowl listing, alphabetically, the various indiscretions by members of the crew [all of which, by the way, were far from original], they reached the part of the agenda that always got attention spans refreshed.

'Con antics.

Things had been decidedly subdued on the Decepticon front, which could be construed either as incredibly worrying, secondary to Megatron's sometimes lengthy process in concocting impressively destructive schemes. Or, simply Megatron brooding until he could think of something, which always left a quiet hint of optimism around the base. No point getting worked up until something actually looked like it might happen, generally tended to be the widespread opinion amongst the grunts.

"I'd like to begin..."

Prowl stood and walked towards the viewing screen.

"By congratulating the work Perceptor and Blaster have put into developing finer points of view on the cameras Cosmos uses to monitor various locations on Earth of note".

There were a few acknowledgements, appearing half-hearted in expression but sincere. Perceptor looked a little embarrassed as he often did when receiving praise, and Blaster had a giant grin plastered from audio to audio, to adapt a human phrase.

"The only thing of interest, and perhaps a debatable cause for concern…."

Prowl activated the screen and a bird's eye view of the desolate land scape came up. There amongst the ruins was Ravage, clear as day, well, as much as anything could be clear in such a grey-scale environment.

"Where the frag's that?"

Ironhide asked, even though he knew.

They all did.

"New Zealand. Near the city once known as Rotorua. A location in the country with still functional and ample geo-thermal resources".

"Our research into the impact of the disaster on the environment, and subsequent energy reserves have shown time and time again that they would be unsuitable for process and use by Cybernetic life".

Perceptor offered.

"To our knowledge, does that include Decepticon processing techniques?"

"Yes Prime".

"Decepticons are lazy mo'fos, Boss-Bot. They're not likely to put all that effort into digging those gasses out of that dead earth when they've got higher priority and lesser resource demanding opportunities".

Jazz reclined insouciantly. He was right, the Decepticons were notoriously slothful when it came to energy resource gathering, especially the military wing. They would only begrudgingly do it under threat of fusion cannon, or enslave the local population to do it for them, a completely unrealistic scenario given New Zealand's current situation.

"Not to mention, Decepticon technology is not advanced enough to provide adequate filtration systems for their flyers. The environment there is far too toxic for them to even attempt an air based entrance".

"Ground based, Perceptor?"

"Ground based Transformers would find it unsavoury, but not at all unmanageable. The Decepticons are limited in their ground based units, however, the Stunticons, if they were agreeable to such a mission, would not fare as well as the average Autobot. Our ground units are built with these conditions in mind, the Decepticons, not so much".

"So what's that slinky bastard doing then?"

Ironhide wondered aloud.

"And is Soundwave nearby?"

Blaster offered, the distain for his rival very much evident in his tone.

"Cosmos did not obtain any further evidence of Decepticon activity. I contacted the Australian authorities and requested any information regarding any sightings they may have had. They sent through their radar reports for the time period Ravage was noted, and while they did have some slight pings that didn't match their own aircraft, it wasn't sufficiently detailed enough to reach a conclusion either way as to Soundwave's activity. The most logical entry point would be an ocean approach, which Ravage would be unable to undertake without assistance, therefore I don't think it's unreasonable to surmise Soundwave was present".

"Prowl, any hint of an on the ground time frame?"

Optimus asked.

"Analytical estimation, based on land mass, geography and the basic assumption of obstacles would place time frame at an approximation of six hours and twenty-three minutes".

"Megatron never acts without purpose, there'll be something there that's piqued his interest. I just can't quite see Ravage being there to take in the scenery. Prowl, I'm running on the assumption that this was perhaps a test run of the cameras and that Cosmos' luck in grabbing this image was just that, luck?"

"Essentially, yes. Although Cosmos didn't even realise he'd caught Ravage on the image. He took a few further shots to test the zooming, light-range and frequency features".

"It's not exactly a strategically sound location for a base, Prime".

Ultra Magnus added.

"Yeah, but the 'cons have hunkered down in worse, and if ole numb-nuts has it in his processor that there's something of value there, they'll put the effort in".

"I tend to agree with Kup, on this. Prowl, have Cosmos do a more thorough run over the country. Jazz, see what your boys can find out. Ironhide, hunt down Beachcomber and have him run geological projections regarding the thermal resources – we could have missed something, or the situation could have changed since we last looked at it".

Prime exhaled from his vents and straightened in his chair as he ran his hand over his battle mask.

"I'm not yet willing to risk anyone to go poking around in that place. This could be anything, from a test of new technology, morbid curiosity on that kitty's part, or Megatron looking for an energy source we wouldn't consider to monitor. They've been quiet for a while now, so let's hope this isn't where their focus is".

The commander, content with his orders, motioned to Prowl to continue.

"Our final point of focus is the offer of diplomatic talks made by the RACA's hosted summit held three days ago in Beijing. I've reviewed the document, and it's surprisingly straight forward for a political invitation from the humans.

It follows: "We, the democratically and lawfully elected representatives of the Nation of Russia and the People's Free Democracy of China, do hereby extend in friendship, an offer of co-operation to the Autobot Race.

We express sincere concern at previous treatment the Autobot People have received whilst being residents of our fine planet, and we wish to make known that we hold no desire to manipulate you in order to seek technological or military favour. Instead, we would like to offer resources as a sign of gratitude for your protection of our planet.

Earth has been under threat from Decepticon terrorism for many decades, many millions of innocent people have lost their lives, as well as Autobots having valiantly sacrificed to protect the human species. As representatives of the two largest nations on this planet, we feel obligated to act on their behalf, despite any internal disagreement it may cause with other human lead entities…"

Prowl looked up from the datapad.

"It goes on a little longer, but offers no relevant points to our interests".

"It was a predictable outcome of the Summit. I was speaking with Ambassador Smekhov, he was quite clear that the Russian and Chinese representatives want closer ties with the us, but for years have been cautious not to anger the US. We reside in this country, Smekhov basically spelt it out – he didn't want us to feel placed in a position where we could be seen as ungrateful for the years of American hospitality. With that said, the statement is right, and we could do with more formalised trade agreements with the other nations. Jazz, another job for you, perhaps get Skids to assist on this. I know he's been looking for a reason to get more formally involved in his cultural research".

"No problem, boss. I do think it'd be the polite thing to do to acknowledge the statement, I'm sure we can cook up some tactful response which the Yanks won't get all iffy about".

"I dunno, they've been mighty sore over the last few years".

"Be that as it may, it's only normal that nations go through periods of change, I have no desire to pull us into human conflicts, Rodimus, how about you break your teeth on this one?"

Optimus sure did like to drop in odd human idioms. The look his apprentice of sorts gave him amused the commander, but he elaborated further:

"Draft a response that makes it clear we're not interested in their wider political interactions with each other, rather our primary concern is the Decepticon threat. Any trade agreement we enter to is based on that fact, but we will be happy to sit down with the appropriate representatives to see where we all stand".

"I'll give it a shot, Prime".

Rodimus absolutely hated paperwork and diplomacy, or rather, he recognised he was pretty useless at it. Magnus' uncomfortable sounding shifting seemed to add confirmation to the leader-in-training's somewhat undeserved self-deprecation.

"Right, well, I think that's everything. Unless anyone has anything else? No? Good".

Prime was well standing as he gave the last two words a solid annunciation. His optics brightened in what was generally understood as a smile and he headed for the door.

"Dismissed".


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

A little over a decade ago this place would have been heavily protested. No one in their right bloody mind would have thought opening such a plant was a good idea. He recalled a conversation with Sparkplug once; the man was railing against animal rights activists and their complete lack of understanding of the little person's lot. Free range stuff was the demand of the upper middle class. Those with disposable income. Sure, it was an unfortunate life for the chicken, crammed in a cage, pecked by aggressive and equally stressed neighbours, constant unnatural lighting baring down on them. Her sisters on the bottom rungs unable to see much at all, that painful glare blocked by the rows of hens above, their excrement, feathers and the occasional maggot dropping down from above. The ones at the top taking the full brunt of the illumination. Those in the middle, theirs was a somewhat more tolerable hell. Rough handlers. Shoddy feed. Feet only ever feeling steel wiring underneath their swollen pads. A sad situation to endure so someone could have cheap eggs.

The man had shrugged, they should be treated a little kinder, a little cleaner. Happy birds do make better tasting eggs, but Sparkplug knew poverty. He knew what it was like to watch adults struggling to make ends meet. He knew what it was like to see exhausted parents argue, sometimes violently, over the slightest increase in rent. The stress of money on a marriage couldn't be undermined. So, you have a family of five, one income, maybe two pathetic ones, it's just not reasonable to drop eight bucks on six eggs because the layers lived happily on a farm, running around in the grass, scratching up bugs, living in a nice little wooden hut with happy sisters.

Things like free range and organic, those concepts had long since died out, along with sustainable forestry and carbon-neutral energy production. That's not to say concerns for the future of the planet's environment were never mentioned in politics or polite conversation, but since the outlook ahead was so irrefutably dismal most chose to worry only about the here and now. Their grandkids would end up paying the bill, of course, if there were even grandkids. It was an interesting decline to watch one that likely mirrored Cybertronian's elite classes as it became ever clearer that all out planetary war was inevitable. Only here, it happened incredibly fast, the reality of the collapse realised and actualised within ten months. Initially a lot of advocacy groups demanded better assistance from the government, there were mass protests, rolling strikes in service and health care industries, police funding was increased, and military operations overseas were pulled back destabilising foreign nations in order to try and keep an extra bank or two from being lit by enraged mobs, depending on one's point of view, unexpectedly or ironically, it caused further public outrage.

Schools were over crowded, universities, colleges, poly-techs only took the best students – and they'd take a paying one over offering some genius from the Bronx a full scholarship. There were fewer and fewer jobs as one stable companies collapsed, and those that wanted to survive moved productions off shore. Housing suffered. What food there was, it was bland. Whatever else, scarce. Once affordable medications became a luxury. Health suffered. Euthanasia was legalised almost overnight, a pathetic attempt to save a few dollars at one end of the health care spectrum. All regulations on abortion were equally removed, much to the despair and outrage of the wider pro-life movement. The pro-choice lobby celebrated, but were less impressed when the idea of one child per woman was mandated across multiple states, some states required a lengthy and expensive licensing process to even have just that one child, and most states implemented invasive three monthly "pregnancy checks" on all women of child bearing age. Ideas that China had long since done away with. It was always the vulnerable that suffered when times were tough. Infanticide and child abandonment increased. People couldn't afford grandma; they couldn't afford baby. Kill them both. Worry about population inconsistencies later. Hopefully it'd all balance out… maybe.

The politicians pushing these changes of course said it would be short term, maybe ten, twenty years. Sure, it'd be hard, heart breaking for some, conscience-racking for others, but the greater good had to be considered. American society was going down the toilet as other, once lesser nations flourished. Enemy nations.

The edifice before them was a grubby building, it's walls black and greasy from the years of burning coal. There wasn't a living blade of grass to be seen within a twenty kilometre radius of this slag pit. Whatever trees still poked from the earth were long since deceased, their brittle branches as black as the walls of their murderer. Ratchet had mentioned, casually, as he tended to do, that human death rates from cancers were 57% higher than the average population in cleaner areas. Not that were many of those left in the once great Nation. The chief medic had also quietly mentioned to a few that they had to have been burning something else here as well, to ramp up such a death toll, both of humans and the wider flora and fauna.

Beachcomber felt a little sad for the chickens, but he had to admit, he felt worse for the children he often saw on the side of the roads poking through the ever-increasing piles of trash. They were skinny, malnourished, many covered in sores and diseases. He wondered what Sparkplug would have made of all this, probably a gruff 'I-told-you-so'. Speaking of chickens, those of the anti-vaccine movement had come home to roost. Vaccination had at one point been considered a national priority, knowing the poverty that was coming, they'd pushed a very rigorous, and fully funded vaccine schedule. The conspiracy nuts of course claimed it was a way to sterilise everyone, a few celebrities claimed it was to "dumb" everyone down to work less than stellar jobs for less pay, and so many refused. Six years later came the "year of the coffins", where two million odd children died of whooping cough, or something frighteningly similar. It was much higher a figure, per First Aid's statistics.

It was also the year that humans started turning on the Autobot cause, or at least the American government. In order to offshoot their own blatant responsibility for the various social ills that seemed to be exploding all at once, the politicians attempted to shift focus. They blamed the Autobots. They've been here how many years now? On American soil! We've borne the brunt of the Decepticon terrorism! Yet we loyally and sometimes at much expense to ourselves offer charity and hospitality to the Autobot cause. Surely they can assist us in our hour of need? Prime had very sorrowfully declined, saying that their technology was cybernetic based, not organic. Autobot scientists and medical staff knew very little about organic disease processes. Despite being a little lax with the truth, it did keep the outrage culled enough not to result in any type of attack, well, a government sanctioned one. Prime was able to save face whilst holding significantly advanced organic medical technology close at home, there was a considerable fear amongst the Autobot science and medical core that it wouldn't' be hard for the humans to reverse engineer a cure into a weapon.

The Decepticon raiding party consisted of Starscream and Skywarp – Thundercracker being nowhere to be seen. Rumble, but no other member of his usual posse. Dead End and strangely Hook. It seemed a very messy affair, with the predicted focus being on the energy storage batteries. For all the orders Starscream was barking, few seemed to be paying him much heed. Skywarp was more interested in toying with Ironhide and Warpath than in actual combat, much to the warriors' chagrin. Rumble was busy doing damage to load bearing walls until he was, as he claimed, was so rudely interrupted by Cliffjumper and Brawn. Dead End was slouching about behind the newly crafted ruins of one of the main warehouses, blasting at the geologist's head. Hook was disappearing in and out of the main coal storage hub.

Coal was a filthy energy resource, and as desperate as Cybernetic life got, fuelling from coal based energon was a much-protested last ditch effort to hold off deactivation. Surely the Decepticons had a wider range of targets to go after, surely they must have had supplies squirreled away for such hard times? And could it have been that desperate that these were the rag-tag bunch that Megatron had sent? If they were truly that impoverished they would have sent more capable warriors, because their current tactics seemed to be wasting more energon than they'd gain from this atrocity. Beachcomber pointed his blaster over his shoulder and fired, somewhat aimlessly, no desire for violence a common thing, least of all today. Today, today it just seemed sad.

Dead End exhaled so heavily through his vents the geologist knew he'd concluded he may as well rush his enemy now, as death would get him sooner or later. Of course, the wee Autobot was no match in fire power for the Stunticon, who proceeded to transform and begin a rather violent and thoughtless rush towards the Autobot. An over turned trailer provided a makeshift ramp and the melancholic was airborne. Beachcomber took a quick dive to the left and avoided any immediate damage. Rolling up into a crouching position he fired near the tyres of the stabilising Decepticon. He grunted, more in abject frustration than any discomfort, yet did find it difficult to obtain tread. The Autobot decided he need a better vantage point and took off running towards an old brick wall.

On arrival, he noticed as he vaulted over the thing, that it had once been part of a building. He ducked down as low as he could manage while he checked through sub-space in the hopes he may have a stray proton grenade. Not likely, but occasionally he'd been asked to hold something for one of the others who held a more favourable view of war mongering.

"Look, I'm bored. And this is ever so disagreeable to my already miserly disposition. Please just surrender yourself for immediate termination or do me the privilege of hastening my journey to the void".

He droned more morose than usual, which was generally a hard feat to accomplish.

"If you insist".

Beachcomber threw the grenade. Standard issue explosive, nothing protonic about it.

"Oh goody".

The Decepticon, his voice drenched with sarcasm, had a few moments to consider the credibility of his suicidal ideation, decided he may as well drag his aft plates through another cycle and quickly moved to avoid the worst of the blast. The 'Con made it into a ditch and the most harm it did was picking up an assortment of rubble pieces and scratching his armour.

Beachcomber's resulting explosion, whilst generally small in the grand scheme of the battle, still managed to direct debris into the melee Rumble was currently engaged in. A small piece of glass stuck him in the side of the left optic, not sharp or heavy enough to break the delicate glass, but enough to scratch and alarm pain receptors, shutting down the effected eye. It gave him moment to pause, he stepped back and covered the rather pathetically sized wound.

"Something the matter, pussy?"

Cliffjumper mocked, following his words a strategically placed left hook, followed by a right, another left and a foot to the crotch.

The cassette unable to take the veracity of the strikes lost balance and fell to his aft. He looked up with his operational optic and spat. A sudden attempt to transform his arms into their alt mods was met with a swift rifle butt to the back of the cranium from Ironhide, whose frustration with Skywarp lead him to engage other tactics. It was a generous whack, but didn't quite push him over into stasis, his equilibrium scanners would be a little itchy for the next cycle, however.

It was around that point in the battle that Warpath figured out, or just got plain lucky, where the teleporter was going to appear next. The seeker's arm landed a few metres from Beachcomber, the fingers still twitching, a macabre sight, but the minibot had seen far worse in his years. Of course, when he was the butt of a nasty joke, it all ceased to provide amusement. Compelled as much by rage from that point as well as the blatant realisation that he was no longer fit for battle and probably a little in danger, Skywarp retreated without orders. Fuck Starscream.

Dead End noticing that the last two active mechs wearing that little purple face were Starscream and Hook, decided the best course of action, even if it was futile in attempts to out-drive the grim reaper, was to follow the seeker.

"Two left".

Ironhide said with a grin, as he clocked his rifle, pivoting he began an exceptionally intentioned walk towards the remaining 'Cons.

The red warrior, however, would have no further part to play in the skirmish as Starscream's shrill vocaliser suddenly let rip with a torrent of both earthen and Kaon profanities. Beachcomber stole a glance only to note a highly amused bulky green triple changer Transforming mid-flight and ploughing the Deception second into the dirt. He offered his own statement, probably equally profanity laden, known Springer, but the mini-bot couldn't quite make out the syllables of the roar of a rather concerning looking inferno burning in a neighbouring warehouse.

"DO IT NOW HOOK! YOU SLAG FRAGGIN' PIT BRED PILLOCK!"

That of course had every Autobot in audio-shot taking a pause.

"Ooh, that can't be good…."

Springer groaned, the Decepticon struggling to free himself from the head lock.

Hook came casually walking out from the storage hub. He seemed to ignore every other individual in the situation, sighed irritably.

"It's done, so stop your whining".

He took off.

Starscream managed to get himself free of the grip, but more in part because Springer loosened enough, concerned that he was going to suddenly need both hands free.

The remaining Decepticons took to a quick retreat.

"Ah, we should be worried, right?"

Cliffjumper noted.

The explosion was as loud as it was predictable.

It tore that dirty structure to shreds as lumps of hot coal tore in every which direction from the force of the blast.

When Beachcomber would wake, he'd note the massive plume of pitch black smoke still rising enthusiastically into the sky above. His internal clock was a bit sketchy and giving him conflicting information about how much time had passed since whenever he was knocked into stasis and now. Regardless, the small mech pushed himself up into an unsteady standing position. The processing plant was a violently smouldering mess of a rather large collection of various shades of black and grey. A very toxic looking sludge was leeching out down a small slope, slopping into an already heavily polluted stream. Humans staggered about covered in the soot, their wet eyes red from the irritation, their coughs a pathetic attempt to rid their already battered bodies from the toxins. He didn't need to have medical programming installed to know a good number of those men were going to be dead by the end of the week.

Ironhide and Springer were working together to pull Warpath out from under a twisted column of jagged metal. The oily residue, or whatever the slag it was, preventing both mechs from getting enough traction to free their companion. The minibot knew he was unlikely to be of much assistance to them.

"I'll look for Brawn and CLiffjumper".

He called to the two much larger warriors, who either didn't hear him or couldn't be bothered acknowledging his statement.

He transformed, and the small dune buggy began hoping over the less than stellar terrain. It wasn't going to be an easy experience for his suspension, he thought as he found himself yelping in pain as he struck a large facture in the ground. It did manage to propel him a little higher into the air to give him a slightly better vantage point though. He noted Cliff on his back between a few piles of rubble that served to obstruct the view others had of him, but certainly would have offered some protection from the secondary blasts that had been triggered by the initial one.

He transformed mid hop and landed gracefully in the soot.

"Cliff? You awake man?"

His fellow mini-bot groaned.

Beachcomber slowly helped him into a sitting position.

"Wow, gonna be feeling that in the morning".

He chuckled as he rubbed his dented helmet.

"Where's Brawn?"

"Over here, idiots".

Brawn was trapped under the remains of one of the many foul-smelling chimneys. Amply covered in the black ash that this filthy place produced.

"Humans really know how to build 'em, huh?"

Cliffjumper laughed in response, though there wasn't much sincerity behind it, it mirrored Brawn's sarcastic tone more than anything else.

"Saw that fuck-nuts Rumble take off".

"I've comm'ed Ratch, ETA 8 minutes".

"Sure thing, hippy".

ooOOoo

Beachcomber's afternoon ended well enough in the wash racks. The damage he took was generally superficial, a few dings, a lot of scratches, an annoying burn mark to his inner left wrist joint, but nothing that couldn't wait a few cycles. Ratchet had his servos full with the others.

Despite Brawn's always gruff exterior and bloated sense of physical resilience, he'd taken a considerable amount of damage, more from environment than actual Decepticon connections. He now lay in a medically induced stasis so Ratchet could work on repairing a rather large hole caused by a rather large piece of exceptionally hot coal that went flying, stabbing him before said chimney collapsed.

Cliffjumper had been dealt to by First Aid, and was now recovering in his quarters as his bragging about how he'd given it to Rumble was driving CMO nuts. The red mini bot was now off duty for a good few weeks, so that was going to prove an interesting thing for the brass to manage. A bored Cliffjumper was an exceptionally dangerous one.

Warpath, acting with a little more sense, was keeping his mouth plates shut and remained in the repair bay. His injuries were also a little more concerning, but didn't require anything as significant as stasis. His linkage was busted and Perceptor would need at least 72 hours to craft a replacement part.

Ironhide tolerated the invasiveness of Ratchet's scans, but his injuries were like Beachcombers, and didn't require extensive repairs. Springer, that lucky son of a fusion cannon, had only a few scratches that could be easily buffed out. The green triple changer was already in the rec room recounting his heroic deeds to whatever femme was stupid enough to sit down to drink her ration.

He wondered if it was a traitorous thought to entertain, how were the Decepticons managing? Skywarp had obtained the most irritating of injuries, but as inconvenient as it was, a severed limb was never fun. He'd often considered the nature of Decepticon medics, the earth based unit didn't appear to have one – that Autobot Intel knew of. Soundwave, Hook and Shockwave if he had a spare klick were it. Most Decepticons had learnt through years of experience how to deal to their own minor injuries. Anything more serious, treatment depended on the resource equation of the value of the mech verses the waste of resources needed to get them functioning as cannon-fodder, concurrent, of course, with whether the repairer could be bothered, or didn't mind the mech dragged before him. That was the other point, Beachcomber knew he didn't have a lot of friends in the ranks, especially amongst the more energon-thirsty, but he knew they'd always drag his batted aft into see Ratchet if he was injured.

It was probably one of the most glaringly obvious differences in terms of conduct for their respective militaries. Decepticons who'd jumped ship to join the red-face bigrade, and there were quite a few, had always pointed that out. The first time was always an exceptionally overwhelming surprise, upon opening their optics expecting to behold a benevolent and forgiving Primus only to see a rather surly Ratchet waving a wrench around cursing in his native Iaconian. Despite the frightening sight, it was a welcome one. A meeting with Primus wasn't going to happen today.

Now Beachcomber being only a lowly geologist, he was not privy to any intelligence debrief about why the 'Cons had attacked that wretched looking dump. As far as he knew, which wasn't much, no one had any idea what the 'Cons had escaped with, if anything. He had already heard a rumour that they'd just done it to be jerks, although stronger language had been used. He'd also heard that Megatron was dead and Starscream was now leading the only few who were loyal to him. That, of course, was total bullshit, as the humans said. No way in the pit Rumble, least of all Dead End would follow that screech bag.

All he knew for sure was the human death toll. One hundred and sixty-four. Fifty-three were critically injured, most of them would likely die secondary to their limited means and no expressed offer of assistance from their employer, which frankly, wasn't unexpected. Another three hundred and eight were being treated for serious poisoning from the toxic smoke, and was likely that 80% of them would expire. Just over ten thousand were suffering from mild exposure effects. The immediate area around the plant had been evacuated, leaving a very lonely and unsettlingly still environment around the burning disaster.

Optimus Prime had offered the assistance of the Protectorbots, the President had basically told him to go fuck himself. She was too proud.

All up, it was a sad outcome to an attack no one seemed to understand.

oooOOOooo

 **Author's NB:** I forgot to mention I can't type in Ironhide's accent, I just hear it in my head. Heh.

Also, I'm not sure if Ratchet is from Iacon proper. I read somewhere that he was a from a village nearby, but couldn't find a name. I did see Tyger Pax mentioned, but again, no idea.

Someone needs to compile a list of where these guys come from, it'd be extremely helpful. If there is a list, please let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

It wasn't exactly a bonanza of a haul. Half a petrol tanker of fuel equated roughly one half a condensed energon cube.

But there they were, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Motormaster and a particularly surly looking Brawl.

Upon debrief, Prowl would have a slight processor crash as he tried to calculate his way around the pathetically illogical statistics that even though they'd gained this measly half a cube, the attack would have cost them at least twelve.

The truck had pulled into the service station around 0530 hours. The four armed guards would never have had a chance against Decepticons, but they had never been hired to protect against that type of mob. The paperwork was signed, the payment double checked and the driver and service station manager began the process of unravelling the hoses to deposit the luxury item. Despite the minuscule amount, the station did enough business that its manager and staff could survive. It was in a relatively busy part of town, in least in terms of thoroughfares, while essentially low income, high density residential and commercial, there were enough people who could afford to run a car. Most, of course, via illegal means, but money was money and the police oftentimes looked the other way, as a few dealers pumping gas into 1980s imports wasn't really the top of the priority list.

Hold ups and occasional turf wars were part of the deal in this economy when one chose to open a gas-station. The manager, a gruff man of 84, a veteran of too many wars, a retired farmer, widower of six years and raising three grandchildren under the age of 18, he had no option but to keep working. Twenty years back retirement was looking good, though he was impatient for that golden number to roll round. He and his wife had kept excellent health, were from long-lived stock and were also incredibly fiscally responsible. They were able to weather the crash, but not without the reality that both would now have to seek employment. His wife had worked three part time jobs, one as a cleaner for a school, health care assistant at a rest home on Saturday and some work in a diner on Sunday – that was, until she came home one evening, said she had a headache, lay down and died on the couch. Peacefully, in her sleep. Best one could hope for really.

The service station lay in a cluttered portion of the city. A long abandoned and now seriously derelict McDonalds was neighbour on the left. A well boarded up ghost of better times, surrounded by heavy chain linked fencing with barbed wire crowning the top. A fire had seriously damaged it a few years back, likely squatters. To the right was a very cheap, very scruffy looking department store of sorts. It specialised in nothing really, and in all honesty the majority of its wares had come from good-will stores and whatever crap had had been picked up from the side of the road and could be brushed clean with little effort. It opened around 9 and would close sometime about 8 in the evening. It was generally steady. The empty lot out the front was home to those who lived out of vehicles they couldn't afford to run, but the owner of the junk store allowed them to stay as long as they paid their rent on time. It wasn't an uncommon practice, and it certainly increased the overall look of poverty that hung heavy over the metropolis. Across the street a building that stretched the width of the service station as well as that nasty store, a fifteen floor apartment complex that in all probability, a stiff breeze could knock down. More windows were broken than not, sheets of plastic or plywood for the luckier few passed as repairs. The door to the main lobby had long been destroyed, and the lack of such allowed a good view into a dim, most likely stinking and overly vandalised ruin. The elevators hadn't operated in years, a far too frivolous expense for penny-pinching owners. However, said owns had clearly understood the importance of good security to protect what was left of the shabby investment, so installed very heavy doors with coded locks on the entrances to the stair-wells. Can't have been easy to move furniture in and out, but most people didn't own much these days. Places like this, the appeal was also that they were furnished, the quality of such was open for debate. The gamble was then on whether or not the beds were riddled with bugs or diseased fluids.

It was a foul, smog stained edifice, built in a bland, decoration free rectangular structure, void of any individuality from either tenant or owner. Even the red bricks would have been a boring sight to look upon in its hay-day. Lighting, a tad hap-hazard, either from people using improvised candles, or those who could afford power didn't tend to use it all that often. It was seldom you'd see it well lit.

Its neighbours included an equally bland, slightly higher, but considerably less structurally sound looking housing development, albeit one that seemed more populated, and the remains of probably an identical building that had been burnt out long before he'd found employment in the petroleum distribution industry. Behind the station had once been something of an artistic icon, a towering structure of about thirty floors, with a rather large ornate glass dome over five story division that jutted out to the left. The glass panels that remained intact were smeared in filth from years of financially driven neglect. Built to be mostly offices, restaurants and a language school the crash had caused most of those businesses to close and was now, like the others, holding cheap accommodation.

Acquisition of the fuel was rather swift and generally bloodless, the humans weren't going to surrender their lives for such, even if it meant some annoying meetings with company execs. Astrotrain clutched the tanker and lifted it into the air before sub-spacing.

Blitzwing had expected a bit of resistance, from someone, somewhere, maybe a passing Autobot, so when this expectation hadn't come to fruition, he decided he may as well get the ball rolling with a well-placed grenade into the former art-deco inspired wonder. Of course the explosion was something of note. A huge fireball engulfed the side-section, the force sending the long weakened floors upwards, tearing easily through the dome, such as it was. The resulting 360 shockwave sent heavy debris and a good rush of flame through into the neighbouring structures. The rest of the building pancaked, but its neighbour's bottom floors blown out by a well flung chunk of masonry causing it to topple backwards, spilling itself and its contents, both human and materialistic, across the overly cracked road. The memento of the fall still pushing its upper levels into the adjacent structure, a very seedy looking strip joint and a large and dilapidated casino. No one had money to gamble, even those most serious of addicts had enough sense to know when was enough.

The triple changer laughed loudly, one little grenade causing this level of damage? He was amused and fired off three more into larger buildings placed about a block away respectively. The results were pretty much the same.

"Blitzwing".

Astrotrain stated deadpan.

"Oh come on, Astro, you can't say that wasn't in some ways chortle-worthy".

"And think of the all those wretched meat-sacks that just went squish".

Motormaster chimed in as he decided on more brutish means of demolition, namely his fists. He jumped the fence of the old McDs, ploughed his servos through the frontage of the once busy provider of obesity and after he realised there was very little likelihood of fatalities as a result of his activities, he turned, grabbed the large sign and flung it like a javlin.

It tore through the apartment complex across the street, digging in at about the ten story level, thrown with enough force that while the M tore off, the metal pole continued on its trajectory until it punctured the opposite wall.

"How much damage do you think we have to do before the Autobums show up?"

Blitzwing mused loudly, more to himself than anyone else.

"Dunno, but I'm here, I've done my job, so screw you mutts if you think I'm not going to take a bit of fun for myself!"

Motormaster punctuated his statement with a swift kick to an abandoned car, sans wheels, into the department store. The residents of the makeshift shanty town had long since taken off, however, many of the residents of the local apartment buildings were not as lucky, nor would they be. The death toll was going to be catastrophic.

"Maybe we can check for other fuel sources?"

Brawl grunted. Of course he didn't mean it, not a word of it, but he, like Motormaster did revel in a good amount of destruction, and they were here now, there wasn't an Autobot to be seen, so why the Pit not?

ooOOoo

They had demolished an area stretching three kilometres down the road from the service station by the time they reached the large, mostly abandoned industrial park. It was separated from the residential zone by a series of well-worn rail tracks, the other side began with what had once been an incredibly profitable curtain manufacturer. Dark and empty now, and of course with so few humans in the area to murder, the pursuit of destruction lost all appeal.

"Well, if we keep going we're bound to reach some more suburbs".

Blitzwing noted as he watched Astrotrain fire three missiles, one into the Curt's Curtains, another into a nameless low level factory with an overly large chimney and one into what had into a plant that produced car radios.

"I think we better head back, Megatron is probably going to be less than impressed that our expenditure is more costly than our gain".

Astrotrain monotoned. Someone had to be the voice of reason, they'd had their fun, no Autobots had shown up, and the satisfying screams of dying humans had long since gone silent.

Even the usual sounds of sirens were absent from this recent bout of violence; given the poverty of the neighbourhood, the substandard roading and the overall lack of desire by the emergency services to extend themselves into a losing situation, there just seemed no point now. He wasn't sure if that was sad, pathetic or just plain needless.

"Yeah, maybe, but you know, if we knocked out a few schools, maybe a Mosque or Church or something, it'd piss off the humans, especially seeing as there ain't no 'Bots about".

Brawl had a point, and it'd been a while since really any of them had caused some mischief. So none of them were too hard to convince. They transformed into their respective vehicle modes and moved through the industrial zone blasting at random, within twenty minutes they'd reach some clusters of human activity.

ooOOoo

It was, thankfully, not a school.

Nor was it a Mosque or any other religious structure.

However, it was a very large outdoor market. Too early for there to be patrons, but the vendors, property managers and poorly paid security noted the noise of the approaching destruction. Being that it was something most were familiar with and all had no desire to experience they began a hasty and disorganised evacuation. With that said, these merchants, despite their fears of robot initiated demise, had to concern themselves with the reality that this was their livelihood, that these sad looking tents with their shabby merchandise was all they had to feed their family with. Many were killed trying to load their commodities into vehicles, many were killed trying to flee, laden down with goods in sacks and bags.

There were the screams that Astrotrain ever so enjoyed.

"A lot of this shit is really flammable!"

Motormaster laughed his optics focussing on a small fire as it blossomed into a massive inferno. It'd been an ember from a burning fruit stand that was flicked up by the wind landing on a generous pile of dusty and well frayed rugs. Once those caught, there was really no stopping it, the flames jumped easily between the fabric of the tents, upholstery in cars – their doors still open, the dry grasses and plastic matting laid down on the ground. Human bodies lay in numerous piles charred and burning amongst the poverty.

It was a glorious sight for one so depraved.

Brawl was certainly enjoying himself.

Neighbouring this small plot of struggling capitalism was a car park that once serviced a very large and expansive shopping Mall. It was a bit of a recurring cliché now, the structure was long deserted, there had been a few small shops on the outlaying portions of the hub that had managed up until about a year ago, but they too, now, were gone.

"A match in that'll go good!"

Blitzwing laughed as he aimed a missile and fired. It easily flew across the empty lot and smashed through the first floor window display, there was a few seconds of lag before a massive explosion blew out shards of glass and whatever else wasn't sufficiently fastened. It wouldn't' take long before the thing was completely engulfed, massive black plumes of smoke ambled upwards at its own sluggish but very well pronounced pace. Soon it started to settle on nearby buildings, people, cars. It was going to be a hell of a clean-up.

"I just googled the locale, turns out there's an old battery recycling centre not far from here. About ten K's that way!"

Motormaster pointed east of their direction.

"We blow that, it'll cause a lot of carnage".

"Why the hell not?"

Astrotrain shrugged, but the smirk that pulled at the corners of his mouth betrayed his desire to unleash some further damage upon this pathetic ball of mud.

ooOOoo

To say it was a decent explosion would have been a rather gross understatement.

The chemical processes involved in recycling car batteries were quite volatile, and while a lot of concern for the environment had gone the wayside since the crash, and perhaps a bit before, the idea of just chucking old batteries into landfills to leach their poisons into the earth didn't sit well with even the most money-grubbing and environmentally laziest of politicians.

This facility was the largest provider of jobs in the region. It ran four shifts a day, operating twenty four hours, its employee contingent on at the time of the attack was an unsettling eight hundred and forty-three. Shift change.

It didn't take long for the four Decepticons to completely lay waste to the entire plant and its peripheries. All humans on site would die. Hundreds more in the immediate surrounds would also be killed. That added to the eighteen thousand six hundred and three persons who died in their rampage. The human leadership of America was going to be very displeased, well, at least in their official standing. Spoken quietly, such death tolls were greatly appreciated, they pulled the population down somewhat ease the strain on already over-burdened infrastructure.

From woe to go, as the humans were fond of saying, the Decepticon adventure lasted roughly three hours, and in that time not a single Autobot showed to attempt to slow their spread.

The primary reason had simply been lack of communication. The first the Autobots heard of it was through the media. The humans in the area had alerted their authorities as per standard protocol, but said authorities had in turn not alerted the Autobots – as per theirs. The starkly uncomfortable reality had been for years that individual humans or civilian entities no longer had direct access to Autobot assistance. Cantankerous military officials and prideful politicians didn't like that they were not the first line of defence for their citizens. Concurrently, they stated the Autobots had an awful lot to worry about, and the tragic reality that a Decepticon attack would have on a civilian area had to take a backseat to a strike on energy production or a military installation. What was never mentioned, of course, was that communication lines were sorely impacted by the pollutants in the atmosphere, and it was most certainly not helpful that human military transmission experts actively worked to block private interactions with the Autobots. Regarding the recent mess at that filthy coal burning plant, well, they were lucky to be able to intervene there, someone in management knew someone in the military who didn't particularly want that someone in management to die, so quickly dropped a line to the Autobots, who, were of course, only too happy to assist, though it was likely the military personnel would have lost their job. Tragic in this economy.

Putting aside the lack-lustre concern for the dignity and sacredness of human life, the practical stand of the government was to never alert the Autobots if civilian or light industry was being attacked. It was a prideful approach, the human authorities of this country did not want to look as if they needed the Autobots to pull them out of every mess the Decepticons started.

To the public, the unfortunate and asinine excuse was further compounded, that Autobot involvement might have prolonged the attack, increasing its death toll and damage. Blame, of course, was always laid squarely at the feet of the Autobots, much to Prime's ever growing annoyance with this branch of the human species. How could those tiny creatures actually state that they were to be the first port of call for civilians then not bring the Autobots into fight a far superior enemy? Their understanding of their flaws and weaknesses was considerably lacking. While the crash may have all but have obliterated civilian functioning, finance was always found for military applications, but those applications could never legitimately compete with the Decepticon forces.

Optimus Prime reclined in his chair as far back as the struts would allow. He exhaled rather obviously through his vents as he irritably flicked the datapad onto the desk in front of him. It skidded its own length three times before coming to a stop, the video footage of the explosion began to replay, albeit on mute.

"Jazz".

He activated the private comm.

"Yeah boss-bot?"

"With no desire to add to your already pulsating workload, but how much of an effort would it take to script a seriously firm letter of displeasure to the humans regarding the recent Decepticon attack and their lack of communication?"

"Well… um, I don't think they'd take it all that well, but I'm sure I could cook something up that was all nice-like".

"On second thoughts, don't. Instead, chat with Blaster, tell him to prioritise work on clearing the air-waves so we can be better informed next time Astrotrain wants to go on a rampage for a half a cube".

"That, I think is probably a better use of everyone's time, boss".

"Oh, and Jazz?"

"Mmm?"

"See if you can find out what in the name of Vector Sigma Megatron is doing authorising these barely rational attacks".

"Could simply just be bored mechs, boss".

"Could be…, but try and find out anyway. Prime out".

The commander spun around in his chair, stood in one smooth motion and stepped towards the window. He deactivated the tinting and glanced out over the perpetually smoggy landscape. Even in Autobot City, which was quite well cleanly operated, the filth from the neighbouring human metropolises could be visualised. It was now always impossible to gauge the colours created by the Sun's comings and goings behind the horizon, instead of the once vibrant reds and violets, the stunning blues and teals produced by the natural process of this part of the universe, now there was just an ever unpleasant array of sooty tones, greys, the occasional very unnatural green and unpleasant purples. The toxic mess the humans were making of their planet did concern him, while it certainly wasn't helpful for the organics, it sure didn't help Ratchet's workload. Soot in vents was always an issue.

Then there was the acid rain, and it didn't seem to have much logic as to where it fell. During the worst days of the war on Cybertron, acid rain was weaponised, seekers would seed the atmosphere with this death and it'd pour down on the battlefield, maiming or outright killing both friend and foe alike. On Earth, it was random. Entire forests far from anything resembling "civilisation" had been killed. Cities bore the pocked marks of the hazard. Generally concrete structures were a little sturdier, but wood and metal often fell prey more quickly. The less said about its effect on organic life the better. It was also difficult for the human scientists to predict the showers, so there were always high injury and death rates from each burst.

Prime re-tinted the window, not wanting to stare out over such bleakness when his mind still held the beauty of this planet firmly in his memory banks. Beauty that he'd witnessed so often less than a vorn ago. He turned back to his desk and sat down, he wondered if there was any point heading back to his quarters for a rest. Ratchet would certainly be pleased, but the datapads were piling up. Every Autobot and his cyber-dog seemed to have an opinion on Megatron's recent shenanigans, and they were more than happy to try and find something that resembled evidence to punch into a report. Well, except Jazz, that bot would go out of his way to avoid writing things down. That was Prow's domain, and the statistician more than made up for Jazz's half-afted contributions to the paper trail.

It had been a hard day, but as frustrating as it was – the human leadership and Decepticon activity alike, the Autobot imagined that for a lot of humans their day was far worse.

Or simply over.

War gave the Prime many opportunities to be frustrated, not to mention far too many circumstances to feel completely in the dark. Days where there wasn't enough information, or none at all. Hearsay, hyperbole and shoulder shrugs. Days where he was left wondering if he was doing any good at all. Days he contemplated throwing in the Matrix and driving off, rolling out. Days where despite all the best mechs with all the best intel there were no answers. Days like that bothered him. It meant something was brewing. Bad things. And annoyingly so, days like this were getting more frequent.

This was one such day.


	5. Chapter 5

Five

Reverberations wriggled themselves rather violently up through the rickety wooden legs of the bed, through that almost questionably damp mattress right into his bones. He was bolt upright in the thing as quickly as his aching muscles would allow. Daniel found himself gasping in fright, trying to slow his breathing, trying to give his brain a moment, or six, to figure out what was happening, trying to inwardly tell himself it wasn't what he thought it was.

Deep down he knew.

Wasn't an earthquake.

Wasn't some old codger hadn't just driven his car into the lobby.

Was a gestalt.

The noise they made when they took a step, when one of those massive feet struck the earth regardless of what was on said earth, to claim it as disquieting would be a gross understatement. Friends had once asked him if it was like that scene in Jurassic Park, the one with the T-Rex, the water glass...

Not even close.

Always was it fear elicited. Sure, he was a child, and children got scared, but this sensation dug straight into the heart, into the soul. An adult fear was far more reaching, and had a much less ideal impact on the mental stability of the individual. As a child, it was black and white, good and evil, adult sensitivities threw in all those shades of grey – that's where the real trauma lay in wait. When he was with the Autobots, there was always safety, always an assurance that they'd protect him, he never thought they'd fail. Yes, he recalled being afraid many times, and those nightmares were so frequent, the horrors he'd seen and how they oftentimes so replayed them through his mind in quieter moments; but children could be distracted, their fears allayed by a bright lolly pop or a happier tale, even being allowed to _drive_ a massive sentient truck. As an adult, he realised how naïve that was, if Optimus Prime could fall, then who could offer protection? If Metroplex could be devastated, then what town walls could give solace? Of course, Prime came back. Metroplex was rebuilt. And he spent the defining years of his youth in a foreign country.

But here, now, he was alone, he had no Autobot body guard, for whatever that was worth. All he had at this moment, was the shoddy walls of an aged apartment building, well passed its expiry date.

Sirens alarmed next. He found it difficult to determine if the noise was coming from somewhere in the building, or outside as a city-wide alert.

A single bead of sweat ran down his spine.

Still frozen in the bed.

His breaths, short, sharp, uncomfortable.

Muscles tensed.

A thought passed through his head, he entertained it slightly. Perhaps a nightmare. Perhaps imagination. Perhaps….

Foot-step two.

No.

Sweet Jesus.

Definitely a Combiner.

Which one?

That's when fear started to grip at his heart. It was physically noticeable. A crushing sensation. As if something reached into his chest, wrapped it's cold, metal hand around his organic pump, and began to squeeze, slowly, with malicious aforethought.

This building wouldn't stand a chance.

Some of those abominations were more orderly in their purpose, more likely to stick to a military plan, more likely to follow orders. Deep within their united core, in that always simplistic mind, where the dominant personality of their leader would take higher step, always answering to the dread driven by Megatron's fusion cannon. However, some were barbarous, simplistic, animalistic, and would seek destruction as all in combination demanded energon to be spilt, demanded blood, for that caused fear. And fear was their currency.

His second thought was quickly interrupted by an alarm most definitely originating from inside the building. Someone banged on his door, or maybe the neighbours? Screams started to become audible. Yelling. Get out! GET OUT! Hurry! No! For Fuck's Sake, LEAVE IT! GET OUT!

The flight response was triggered.

He was up on the side of the bed, the blankets wrapped around his ankles, he tripped, but grabbed the chest of drawers rammed up against his wall. It gave him enough leverage to avoid hitting the rough and scraggly carpet. Full of fleas, by the way.

Shoes. He grabbed them, pulling them on quickly, the dim light from outside was now flickering. Power grid dying, or inferno beginning?

Wrong feet. Didn't matter. They were on. Laces up.

Reaching the door, unlatching the chain.

Naked. You're naked.

Do you care?

Well, not for modesty's sake…. Need cover, protection. It's going to be hot. There'll be debris. Flame. Glass.

He grabbed his coat, it was only hip length, a pair of track suit pants he'd taken a run in before bed.

They were on, didn't matter which way was front. His coat, the inner seams scratchy against his bare skin.

By the table, next to the door, grabbed passport.

Into the corridor. The whole building shook at that point. Dust and bits of dry wall shaken free of unsteady panelling. The lighting had never been regular in this building, in most actually, but it flickered one final time before it failed three steps from his door. Screams rung up from the group in the hall, his neighbours, most of whom he hadn't yet been formally introduced. Took a moment to realise his voice was amongst the choir. Something deep in the building chugged to life, an emergency generator kicked in, the lighting was worse in its intensity, but it's flickers were orderly. It wouldn't last long, just enough for him to get to the stairs.

Not a wise decision going for the 8th floor of a twenty-story building. Finances of course proving what they were, prevented better options.

He reached for the wall and guided himself along, he knew the generator's fate was coming. No building manager would spring for that kind of luxury, this was probably an oversight in switch activation from when a landlord cared, or feared being sued.

The footsteps.

Louder this time, the vibrations more violent, the entire building shaking in protest. It was getting closer.

No hope that it was a friendly.

Just Defensor out for a pleasant constitutional?

People were panicking, screams continued, a desperate child squawking somewhere in all the mix, an old man crying out in confusion, left to die in this shit box. No time to be a hero. He wasn't one. Never been one. He'd always been the victim. Always been the little kid. Always it was him who needed protection.

Sorry gramps, I'm no hero.

The stairwell door opened without much protest, the generator failed as he entered.

Shit.

It was pitch, there was now not a hint of light from anywhere.

People recognised the mess they were now in. Screams intensified. The majority were starting to succumb to fear. Some stopped in the stairs, dropping to the steps and grabbing the railing, refusing to move or be moved, some would be crushed, others would cause obstruction, falls.

Daniel grabbed at the side of the wall, probably the safer side to be. He tried to hurry as much as congestion would allow, a few bodies to climb over, didn't care if they were living or dead.

The whole building shunted viciously to the left. Up above, above their heads, high up on the top floors came the sounds of twisting metal, a huge crash, debris rained down, not enough to knock one out, but noticeable. The sounds of screeching steel as it was mangled by some external force. A hand? An explosion? A large bit of some other building picked up and thrown, landing roughly on the roof? It didn't bare thinking about.

Whatever it was, they didn't have much time left to get out, he knew that.

He picked up his pace. The rest of them be damned. What did he owe them anyway? It wasn't right for him, Daniel Witwicky, to die like this. In this crap shack of a place surrounded by these dirty plebs. He was from better stock. He deserved better. Better than his parents, at least. General manners and common decency were pushed aside, much like the probably pregnant feeling woman to his right, or she was just fat. He shoved himself from the wall and pushed between a man in his late teens and a young girl, maybe nine. She squealed, the male just let loose with a torrent of profanities, the Witwicky returned fire.

The building shook again, this time it was the sound of breaking masonry that motivated people to quicken their pace. Twisting metal was one thing; it could be easily brushed off for the sake of one's sanity as simply the beast outside gaining better traction on a bus. Cracking concrete, that meant the building was now in more danger than it had been three flights before. The former friend to the Autobots gave up his final ebbs of dignity and decorum and climbed up over the head of a woman in her 40s who was gripping the hand rail as she slowly took one foot on one step at a time, she lost her balance and tumbled, taking out those in front of her in the stair well. It gave the young man a clear exit route – even if he couldn't see it in the darkness.

The final floor, the dust was replaced more with ash, the stink of it stuck itself to the insides of his nostrils, he gave one final shove of both persons and doors and found himself free into the lobby.

Fires burned without control in the building across the street, an overturned laundry truck lay on the pavement out the front. Broken glass lay everywhere. Wise decision putting on shoes. The heavy and foul smelling curtains were starting to catch the embers that were rammed across the gusting winds. The next shudder the building gave seemed more pronounced on the ground floor, he watched as a portion of the façade buckled and the left archway of three crumbled, crushing a woman and two young toddlers.

Daniel couldn't just stand here and wait for the building to come down, and that's what it sounded as if it was trying to do. He pushed his way through the grimy light, the mass of panicked people, far too fearful to venture outside and too concerned to stay put, so they mingled, their nervousness cutting that same foul air.

He didn't care about them; he'd made that thought known to himself multiple times as he scurried down the stairs. He plotted a course and ran it until he found himself out in the ruins of the street. The burning building across the road, that he'd could only glance portions of within the lobby, held a raging inferno on its top levels. Shattered bodies lay amongst the soot covered rubble in the street, not wanting to burn alive, not sure of the smoke's mercy, they jumped.

Huge trenches lay crushed into the road, revealing pipes, wires and whatever else the local council deemed appropriate to burry underneath. The whole ground shuddered again, a quick look back towards his apartment and he noticed the penthouse was starting to crumble. He couldn't stand here. Couldn't wait. Death would only greet him here. He started running.

Weaving through the equally mobile crowds proved irritating if not more concerning. People didn't seem to have any direction and so ran in whatever way they thought might yield survival. People were clambering down manholes into the sewers, they'd only find Grim there, stupid idiots, he thought. Others took their luck running into other structures, maybe looking for an old fallout shelter or basement. Daniel had learnt many years ago from many Autobots that such places provided only tombs. Others tried starting cars, he saw one man stab a pregnant woman in the neck for the crocked bicycle she thought would carry her and her unborn to safety.

The shudder again.

Louder outside.

He couldn't see anything, so that was probably good luck on his part, or lack of good sight.

A massive crash pulled his attention behind him, a building at the end of the street had finally given way, pancaking, thankfully, into the ground below. Anyone in its basements were now dead. The huge column of dust tore up into the early morning sky blotting out any final hints of blue and sun. It was spilling towards him like a tsunami, this was not something he could gawk at like a bloody tourist. He pulled his jacket up over his head, allowing a tiny gap between the buttons for a peep hole, and he started sprinting, using his other arm to shove whoever was in his way to the side.

Wasn't like anyone was going to know about his lack of chivalry. And he didn't believe in an afterlife, so wasn't like his parents were watching.

Suddenly he was in the air, heat prickling burns into his exposed skin, he was flying, fast, then blackness.

Problem with unconsciousness is for most, there's no awareness of time passed. Such as it was for the young Witwicky. He slowly pushed himself up from the shattered and glass covered ground. Exhaled heavily, pain in his side indicated he had to have had at least three broken ribs, or a decent bruise. A sudden coughing fit didn't help, he wiped the bloody phlegm from his hand and stood, unsteady. The ringing in his ears was annoying, but he could stand, nothing else seemed broken, and if he had any kind of significant internal bleeding he didn't exactly know about it now. He wasn't able to locate the source of the explosion, didn't even think he could guess. The building, now multiple piles of rubble, lay haphazardly about the once busy road. There were people of course, some very dead, others just pieces, others missing pieces, and a few living souls, like him, trying to pull themselves up. He ignored them. No time for them. Only time for him. He noted the man lying next to him, face up, contorted in agony.

"My... legs".

"Both still there, bro. You're fine".

He sounded like a douche, didn't care. What was with the apathy? A small voice asked as he stepped over the newly paralysed chap.

What did it matter, if you couldn't get yourself out of here on your own steam, if you didn't have a friend or family member to haul you along, you died here. Wouldn't be the first, wouldn't be the last.

Devastator.

 _Shit._

Bad memories of that combiner.

He was certainly having a delightful time. The behemoth balled a fist and smashed it through one of the few towers in the city that wasn't exactly a dog's box. It didn't stand a chance, of course, the layers above where his massive arm made contact were thrust outwards into its neighbours, raining all manner of debris down onto the street and whomever was unfortunate not to have escaped yet.

Daniel needed to continue his way out. He couldn't go back the way he came, sure, the smoke was thick and dark, but amongst it he could see the flickers of what was bound to be a very uncontrolled and hot blaze the noise of which was doing a fine job over powering the screams and sobs of those around him.

The thump upon the ground this time took his balance from him. He fell face forward into a pile of splintered wood, charred and still glowing in parts. Craning his head up, he saw something that gave him more fear than he'd ever known, not to mention a warm sensation in his pants.

The back tread of Devastator's left foot. It had impacted the earth a mere twenty-six centimetres from his head.

His breath escaped him in a shuddered splutter. The rate of his heart became uncomfortable as it pounded in his chest, pain tore through every nerve in his body, an emotional reality hit him hard. He was far too close. Life could end today.

What happened next took him quite a few minutes to process, Superion tackled the green beast. The impressive force creating a deafening soundwave and propelling both giants a ten kilometres from where the young man now began to stagger upright.

The damage such an act left in its wake was unsettling to behold, and would be even worse when the dust had settled and the smoke had dissipated upwards to share itself across the globe. Buildings, that had thus far maintained enough structural integrity to stay upright now surrendered to gravity and began to collapse in on themselves, whilst others toppled messily in various angles towards the ground below.

Just run.

He listened to the voice. Ignored the pain. Ignored the bodies, both living and dead. Ignored the instability in his right ankle as he tried to gain footing on the massive catastrophe that lay around him. Huge bangs crippled the air around him as the two monsters tore into each other. At his current vantage, his eyes red and weeping from both grit and fear prevented any real understanding of the battle, no prediction as to the outcome was even hinted at. Not from down here.

So, this was what it was like.

To be one of them.

To be just another statistic on Prowl's datapads, solemnly and without emotion handed across a large desk into the hand of a melancholic Prime.

Just run.

Daniel noticed a small service way between two large, but well engulfed buildings, but it provided a better exit, he thought. He couldn't afford to give too much consideration to exit strategies, just had to run.

 _Just run._

He leapt over a crack in the pavement, zig-zagged around six burnt out cars, skimmed an upended hunk of roofing and made it into the passage way. The heat there was less than ideal, it was stealing the air straight from his lungs, leaving pain and exhaustion as a farewell. Perhaps the ultimate farewell.

Run, Daniel, just fucking run.

What else was there to do, anyhow? He ran. It was hard. Hot. Every part of him ached. He was scared. Between the buildings, cracking with flame way above him, he could still make out the sparring titans. Each blow was so massively loud, the resulting shockwaves tore whatever shards of glass remained in window panes and sent them hurtling in every direction, shredding whatever unfortunate happened to be passing by. Running, walking, laying there in tears or in death, the glass gave no concern.

He felt a few of them slice him, but not enough to slow him down. He didn't have the time to whinge about it. Least of his worries, a few dirty cuts, worry about antibiotics later, worry about sutures later. Worry later. Live now.

Just run.

It felt like the clichéd eternity, but he suddenly found himself on the other side of the service lane. The building to the left of his escape started to cave in, the heat and the flame finally claiming its inner spine. A small explosion ripped from somewhere on the fifth floor of the building to the right, the expected spread of rubble tore through, but at least it was high enough up that it got some good distance before it'd start the descent to the terra firma.

The road here was equally cluttered as his previous location, but the thoroughfare away from the two fighting hulks was looking a little more favourable to his weak organic form. He slowed his sprint to a more manageable jog, only picking up pace when another massive thump reverberated through the area.

Just. Run.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

The rain that day wasn't dangerous, but it left unsavoury dark smears on the Cybertronian glass, with that said, it wasn't technically glass as they didn't technically have sand. Heh, that had been a confusing conversation, poor Spike, Perceptor was persistent though.

The beads were heavy, sluggish and stained with soot from the horrors that had unfolded in Central less than 72 hours prior. He walked down the long and grimy corridor that led pass the communal lounge. Years back it'd been called the Rec Room, but not so much Rec took place there. Usually just binge intake of high-grade, which some would class as "Rec". Music blared from relatively passable speakers. Muffled chants that indicated a drinking game – he was well accustomed with that noise to know what was going. A smile tugged at his face plates, and as much as he wanted to pop his head in for just a sec, he knew he couldn't. Thanks to the blatant stupidity of the American leadership and the still unknown musings of Megatron, that attack on Central had really screwed him out of free time. He knew himself well enough to know that a foot inside that door would end with Prowl scooping him off the floor and hauling him back to their quarters. Reports to be hastily done under the annoying cloud of the Cybertronian equivalent of a hangover.

He stopped and cycled air through his vents in the most frustrated way he could muster.

He continued. The stack of data pads in his arms a glaring warning sign for any passer by to just keep going. He could, and usually did, sub-space them, but Jazz, head of Autobot Black Ops, walking along with an annoyed look and arms full of these slaggin' things, that was code for "fuck off".

Their quarters were empty, which he expected. Prowl was far more fastidious when it came to paper pushing, and would be at this moment, likely sitting behind a big desk pushing data pads around in between making multiple calls to Autobot and human alike. He tossed the pads on the table, activated the stereo and plonked himself down as Jeremy began to play.

Music like this was an absolute treasure. The entertainment industries, like so many, had taken an absolute hammering, and good quality was no longer affordable to produce. The average person no longer being able to really purchase it. It was considered a luxury. There was still plenty of boot-legging, of course. Even the concept of getting what you paid for had very little meaning now. Parting with huge amounts of money wouldn't exactly guarantee a good quality dub. The artists who'd died, their estates cracked down on such conduct. Those still living also went out of their way to ensure their creation was protected.

The legal headache these companies could cause, the financial destruction they'd unleash if a person was busted with anything under their label was so gigantic that he didn't even think Swindle would risk it.

In the privacy of his quarters, away from those who would judge for making light of such a situation, he allowed himself a smirk, but for only the slightest of seconds. He reached down and brushing aside a few of the pads he activated the computer. Several translucent screens popped up simultaneously.

Mindlessly picking up the first data pad, which contained the latest intel from his contacts, he began the ever so boring task of poking through screeds of what he realised would be useless rumours, cooked up or exaggerated by said contacts to keep a few creds coming their way. Prime was great, he didn't tend to police just how what kind of resources were bled from purse that was Black Ops. It was too important, especially now. Too many enemies where friends were supposed to be. The risk to Autobot security and technology was too great.

The cluster fuck in India had proved that.

So Prime, and a lot of the other department heads looked the other way. It was nice not to have to justify every little clandestine pay-out to some shady human or TraxynXzh.

The four hours Jazz dedicated to the boring parts of the job dragged along with a sluggishness he found indescribably grating, wishing he had popped into the lounge to see what all the hub-hub was about as he reached over and picked up his final data pad. Maybe they were still going, granted, with that said, a high fatality attack tended to be a major downer for everyone, at this point, either everyone was over energising to sorta forget, or it was just the twins holding a not so sneaky bout of their unique version of Fight Club.

Activating the pad gave and entering his security clearances, he found himself staring at the codes for some of the most frightening cagey elements of his job. There was also an alert sitting in the top left-hand corner.

"Great. Now what?"

He grumbled to a statement of unborn chicken voices.

A chuckle escaped his vocaliser as he listened to the background chant.

Alerts were never good. Especially in this programme. It was an indication someone had accessed intelligence files that were none of their Primus' damn business.

The access had had happened in the last 72 hours. A quick check of his internal chronometer and his optics darkened with a slight amount of rage behind them.

Someone had hacked Autobot intel files five minutes after Superion landed a king-hit to that ghoulish green giant.

Ideal time to do it, he had to admit. His guys would be thoroughly occupied with more pressing issues than whether someone was poking about the system, which, really, was a complete disregard for the basics. He was going to have to have a sit down with his peeps and explain what the Black Ops meant, and its mission statement.

Fuck's sake.

"Alright, let's see if we can discover what you were gawkin' at, you giant rusted exhaust port".

It took the Autobot less time than he anticipated. The hacker wasn't sloppy pe se, perhaps they wanted him, or someone, to be aware they'd been in the system, perhaps it was a practice run, or a glitch?

No way this was the work of Soundwave or one of his charges, the access was too glaring, maybe they were in a hurry?

Probably human then.

The little fleshies panicked a lot when trying to get around Autobot security parameters. Red Alert was known to most humans in any sort of intelligence position, legal or otherwise, and for the most part they all knew Red Alert not as a paranoid-two-glitches-away-from-break-down mech, but rather a meticulous and highly security conscious individual whose system protections were extremely difficult to molest. It was a tell-tale sign of human access, they tried to work as quickly as possible. They didn't grasp the finer points of this job. Patience.

Only three files had been accessed by the hacker. An optic ridge rose, hidden by his visor.

"Okay then".

He put the pad down and reclined in the chair he realised was now becoming a little too uncomfortable.

Three files. Entered into the system 12th May 1986. Intel was deemed out of date by human standards, likely known to the then USSR security services, the individuals mentioned no longer active in their respective positions of authority. The information originally dated only by year, for human purposes, 1971.

"Why in the name of Vector Sigma's exhaust port would someone access intel that's almost 60 years out of date?"

Multiple reasons tossed their way throughout his CPU. Some kid trying to show off to his buddies, incapable of reaching the really good stuff, so just grabbed this archaic nonsense? Yet, that wouldn't make much sense, regardless of age, essentially all files relating to human intelligence were highly classified and under the sternest of their security protocols – this was, after all, information the human authorities had no idea they possessed. No matter how out of date, it would cause a significant diplomatic headache, especially in this climate.

Perhaps a legitimate hacker who just couldn't get the file they were after? Worried time was ticking down and they'd be pegged and tracked so just grabbed the first thing they saw? That was shoddy workmanship. Could be one of those idiotic anti-robot entities. They tended to be very hit and miss when it came to trying to access Autobot systems. Most of the time they only wanted to prove a point, look, how easy was it for us, a group of average humans working out of a garden shed, on a 486 hacking those metal monsters, anyone could get this intel and use it to build weapons against innocent people…

Didn't make much sense, no matter how many times he saw the argument trotted out. Mind you, the India cluster-fuck did tend add fuel to the fire of this hyperbole.

Sighing as only a Cybertronian could, he lent back in his chair, stretched his arms behind his back and stared at the ceiling, a grin spreading across his face.

"Do love a mystery!"

Said with a bit of a sing-song tone.

A shot of high-grade was in order, a few additives to get the engine humming a little smoother. This was going to take some digging. Sure, it probably wasn't the most pressing job on the list, but it had pipped his interest, and if anything, it was better than dealing with the absolute shit storm that had descended due to the Decepticon's recent monkeyshines.

Plus, any movement of this business up the food chain was going to require a bit more than just a few old dates.

He opened the files in question, finding them to be stock-standard personnel files, judging by their birth dates, and the human life span, these chaps were likely to all be pushing up the daises. Still, who were they that someone now, perhaps, had intentionally stolen copies of their files?

General William Louis Stephenson, Col. Jerry Frank Woods and Richard Eugene Matters the Third.

The files certainly weren't what one would call padded. Stephenson's was only three human pages long. It included his birthday and other salient details about his education, listed an ex-wife as his next of kin, no children were noted. The lists of his service sparse, what could be read of it anyway. An obviously very truncated file.

Jazz ran a check through his own sources and found the General had retired from the military in 1989 at the age of 71, with full honours and an impressive pension. He died in 1996 from prostate cancer that had spread to his spinal cord and brain.

Col. Woods was still alive, his file slightly longer, and obviously this fellow had been involved in black ops. Red Alert had added footnotes, pointing out to any high ranked Autobot reading, that this fellow was dangerous to Autobot interests given his background as well as his political opinions in the 1980s. He'd been an advisor to the President during the Burger fiasco, and his ideas for the Autobots were far less charitable than building them a rocket to get them off Earth.

Red Alert had also kept close tabs on the colonel, even after he was left disabled from attempting to stop a bank robbery, his family placed him in a rather expensive nursing home in in 2007. He was apparently still alive, though would be pushing 100. His wife had passed away in 2017. His children and grandchildren were financially very well off. His great-grandchildren were going to have a pleasant life, collapse or not.

Matters, well, Jazz knew that man, unfortunately. He was a total scum bag of a politician. He was also not someone who was all too fond of Autobots, also now dead in the dirt. Died in '89, cardiac event. He was an obese man, at least when Jazz had dealings with him. The photo attached to this file showed the arsehole in his best years. He'd done service in Vietnam, but not on the front lines, and he was never given an official rank, at least not according to the records that glowed gently on the screen in front of him.

Jazz also had the uncomfortable displeasure of meeting his son, named the same only now the fourth. He had gone into law and politics, and like Woods, was a thorn in the collective Autobot side. He even managed to get a proposed law to a committee to determine that all humans who had "friendly" contact with Autobots be listed as enemy combatants. This bastard was still kicking around, still in politics and still causing them all manner of headaches.

Spike had come very close to punching him once.

Carly just tended to utter the foulest of profanities under her breath whilst the most beautiful and dainty smile graced her features. Jazz admired her greatly for that.

So, who were these three men? Why had someone stolen such dated information? There were a few lists of addresses dotted amongst the files, and a few other names mentioned, but only as surnames. There was nothing that really set them apart from any other humans on the scene at the time. There were plenty of other humans who were a far bigger nuisance, and a far bigger prize. Files that contained information that was considerably more valued, intel that could be sold. It didn't make any sense, but then, when humans were involved, sense tended to take a back seat.

The one thing that did stand out, only because it was the only thing common across all three documents, one simple word listed under their respective service records:

Riri.

In it's context it didn't seem to be a human's name. Maybe something you'd call a dog?

He ran it through his vast language database, but it didn't ping any alerts that could lend themselves to an acceptable explanation.

"Riri".

He spoke softly, wondering if he was pronouncing it correctly.

While there was absolutely nothing through the files that indicated a purpose, the most rational answer was likely this was the designation of some operation the three had been involved in. It involved a general, a black ops colonel and a politician, so chances are it had been nothing good.

Standing, he swiped his finger over a series of icons, closing the files. A few steps and he was in front of the grimy window staring out over the dimming landscape. It was closing in on 1700hrs. Before everything went to hell, this time of night, at this time of year, the view was spectacular. It was always something that would brighten his mood. He was no Hound, that was for sure, and he always considered himself a "city-mech", the bustling metropolises of Cybertron and Earth got his engine revving like nothing else. The exhilaration of cruising through such places, looking for a club to dance the night away. How could he not love that? But here, on this green gem floating so peacefully in this quaint little solar system, there was a charm to it. It settled the nerves. Eased the spark. The views this world had were always something that grabbed his attention, even if only for a nano-second. There was certainly an appreciation for the foreign concepts of an organic world when one came from a home of metal.

Prowl appreciated it, of course, but in the same way he appreciated a well cleaned chess set.

The music continued to play in the background, as it had the entire time he gave to his current task. Back in Black forced itself out of the speakers, a song he loved and had listened to a generous number of times, hard rock and a serene landscape always afforded him an easy path to pondering such answers. Yet, the sullen muck that lay before him out in the distance, it was truly depressing. Humans really were stupid creatures, but considering the state of his home city, it couldn't be argued they were any worse than the Cybertronians that had dragged their pathetic war down here.

The door opened.

"Was just thinkin' of you!"

Pivoting with a grace honed from vorns of his craft.

"I can hear that down the corridor".

"It's not a bad thing to hear".

"That, is extremely debatable".

"You up for the challenge, then?"

"Perhaps not tonight. I still have work that concerns me, but I did wish to keep our prior arrangement".

From sub-space he pulled two cubes of a particularly tasty energon form, it was laced with an element that didn't exist on Earth. The golden glow that the cubes emitted reflected off Jazz's plates and he smiled.

"Now, where'd you get that? Hope it wasn't from some clandestine stash, dear Prowl".

"Of course not! Ultra Magnus gifted it to me. He informed me that he had a supply that was nearing depletion so decided to share it with some of us who'd spent a little more time away from Cybertron".

"What a doll".

"Sarcasm notwithstanding, sit, enjoy".

The two sat, Prowl placed the cubes at their respective seating positions, and then motioned with an upturned hand for Jazz to take the first sip.

"Oh wow".

He looked up over the cube's edge to view his bonded.

"Smooth, so incredibly smooth".

Prowl took a sip.

"Very much so. The last time I had energon like this was before the destruction of Praxis".

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as if he felt he could not discuss this matter with his mate.

Jazz cocked his head to the side.

"Praxis always did this the best".

He tipped the cube before taking another gentle but appreciative swig.

Jazz chuckled a moment, placed the cube down without letting go, and glanced up at Prowl.

"Feel a tad guilty, I mean, when was the last time anyone around here got a sip like this?"

"Such feelings are, and I know you'll be annoyed to hear me say it, illogical. Magnus' gifted me these cubes, and I decided to share it with you. He has given cubes to others, and Optimus, I'm aware, is saving his for Elita's next visit. Plus, it's not as if you can divide them up into even drops for every Autobot on base. Also, if you feel guilt over one cube, what of the othe…"

"Prowler, Prowler, I didn't mean nothing serious by it, heh, just reflecting on the way things have gone over the last 20 years and how its' some pretty good luck to end up enjoying such a fine fuel with my lover".

There was an insidiously cheeky wink behind the visor. Prowl narrowed his optics in response. Jazz threw his head back and laughed with intentionally overt enthusiasm.

The rest of the cube drinking was spent in a pleasantly comfortable silence.

Carly had once asked Jazz about that. She was a clever little cookie, as the saying went. She was the first of their human friends to realise the we-all-come-off-a-factory-line was a giant load of shit, and that no, some of those mechs weren't just "good friends". The silence, she asked, how do they put up with it? Spike couldn't stand silences, and he'd always been good at ruining the moment because he couldn't tolerate nothing being said. She relayed to a few Autobots, all of whom were heavily amused, that after a passionate kiss under the moonlight, the silence between them something she was relishing as they stared into each other's eyes, was broken by Spike asking what fabric softener she used because her jumper was "super smushy but not scratchy".

 _Well, Carly, babe, when you've been with someone for millions of years, there's not all that much you need to say._

"I gotta show you something".

Jazz placed the empty cube gently on the table as he stood, motioning to the computer.

"It's work related".

The saboteur added in sing-song, which he knew would gain Prowl's attention, and he needed to get it before the tactician lost himself in his own tasks.

Jazz plonked himself down in front of the system and brought it back up.

"What am I looking at? You can't honestly think daily stats on Ratchet's wrench usage is of concern to me?"

"No, not that, this…"

Jazz clicked where the previous alert had been opened.

"Huh".

Craning his head around, he faced Prowl, an almost look of confusion etched on his features.

"It's not there anymore".

"What's that?"

"We got hacked. Someone took three files from our data banks on humans of interest, but they were dated in the 70s".

"So even by our standards, and theirs, at the time of our awakening, they were obsolete".

"Yeah, so why bother hacking them? And why bother setting some likely complicated programme to erase access after I've already seen what they got?"

"Incompetence?"

Prowl said intentionally deadpan.

"Prowl, this whole thing is really sus. It's like they wanted me to know I've seen them in the system. That they wanted me to see what they took, which I can easily re-access. But why? It's all so dated, and the humans involved in those files are either dead or close enough to it that they pose us no real headache".

The other said nothing for a moment.

"It ain't exactly logical".

"No, not at all".

"You know I love a good mystery, right?"

"Very much so, Jazz, very much so".


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

Prowl was an okay dude. Like, he totally meant well. He didn't make such dick moves without the best intentions of the Autobots at spark.

Of course, the majority of the Autobots, low rank and rankles, didn't see it that way. It had been one of the worst orders to be uttered from that accused stick in the mud. Worse still, the order had been backed up by Optimus. Some saw that as a betrayal. He personally didn't mind it so much, after all, it wasn't like they hadn't had such situations before, only recently at the Ark. Of course, that's why it bothered so many, it only seemed like yesterday that they'd finally been free of that smelly hole in the mountain, small, cramped and generally dated. The promise of a new Autobot base, a city no less, was extremely appealing to everyone, whether they said so or not. New, clean, modern, spacious. It was something that got people through the long cycles where they were stuck in a cramped, smelly, dirty – literally, there was dirt, little cell with at least three others.

Prowl had done some math, as he tended to do. Math with the intention of saving resources. The tactician had calculated, and then had those double checked by a bunch of the science bots, that single and double room accommodation amongst the non-officers was expending energy that could be saved by 3.7% a day if they were to go into communal quarters. Eight to a room, with a shared wash rack for ten rooms. There were no longer private lounges or offices. Likewise, their possession, such as they were, were now allocated to lockers. For those considered essential operational personnel, they had six to a room. Some of the officers of lower ranks even found themselves doubled up, oftentimes it was four, as some didn't want rumours to be spread regarding their bunkmates.

The discomfort of lack of space was compounded for those on the subordinates of the Autobot army by communal work spaces. Beachcomber worked in a lab, he had his own little office, even though it was more like the human equivalent of a broom cupboard, but it had a small window that afforded some natural light. Well, when natural light was able to penetrate the thickness of the smog and whatever else lingered in the atmosphere. For all those grunts, it was some kind of monitor duty, or maintenance, or they were allocated to an officer for a few shifts to sort something out. And while patrolling was quite calming for some, the benefits of a bit of "alone time" was downplayed by the reality of substandard roads – if there were any, difficult terrain, the annoyance of the smog and its associated particles getting into one's vents, not to mention the risk of the randomly occurring acid rain. Autobot science could peg where it was going to show up next only about 62% of the time.

When he first saw Earth from the shuttle window, it was amazing. Nothing like Cybertron. It looked so clean, the hues of blue and green like nothing he'd ever laid optics upon. His first foot tread on this world was one he'd never forget. The smell, the sounds, the sights, it was all so much to take in. A stunning beauty that he thought he'd enjoy for vorns to come. The abundance of life had always filled his spark with such hope. That from some random cell that managed to survive the primordial ooze, all this diversity, including his human friends, could be birthed from such a humble beginning. Yet, within less than half a vorn, the humans had managed to screw it all up. Now the view from space was one of a planet darkened, filthy looking sphere of, well, quite frankly, trash.

Today was one of those days that were worse then usual. There were more of those than there were the slightly more pleasant of "dim" days. With the recent Decepticon attacks, the sky was blacked out by the nastiness of burning cities, and other things he preferred not to ponder too long on, or at all if he could help it. Sadly, he couldn't. He pitied the humans, for the considered majority, they were just trying to scrape a living, to feed and clothe the kids they could have, maybe to try and keep dear Aunt Ngaire out of the euthanasia centres. Elections, when they did happen, were rigged, so for all those wee bi-pedal organics out there, they had nothing to do with what their nasty leadership was doing. Of course, with the crack downs on free speech and protest, even internet surveys on people's private Facebook accounts, it was hard to gauge just where people sat on the political spectrum these days. With that said, there always seemed to very "accurate" polls on their feelings regarding the Autobots.

His compassion for the humans aside, his spark really lay with the other organics of this world, everything from the ants he used to feed outside the Ark with Sparkplug's twinkie surplus, to the birds in the sky. There'd been massive extinction events across all continents. Zoos and breeding programmes were far too expensive, most had shut down. People also couldn't find the time or the money to take the family there. The question asked often, how can we feed these tigers when we can barely manage to get food on our own plates?

What a horrible world this had become. He'd tried several times in the last 20 years to get off, even Cybertron or one of its desolate moons seemed like a better option. A thoroughly lengthy discussion with Skids post the initiation of ANZIN had him convinced that Earth was falling into a hole it wouldn't be able to pull itself out of it. It proved very true, perhaps more so than expected.

Beachcomber released air through his vents, wiped what a human would classify as a tear from his optic and looked down at his recent mound of work. Nothing overly taxing, most of his time now was spent on geological surveys, screening for sources of energy that might be utilised for Autobot purposes, working with the other science bots on cleansing contaminated resources and trying to come up with ways to stretch what they already had. Occasionally Jazz would swan in and drop something on his desk, Top Secret of course. What the Deceptions were up to. Jazz had two questions each time, was it possible for the 'Cons to pull this off, and could the Autobots jump to it before them? The last ten years he'd never given a "yes".

There was nothing that exciting on today's agenda. Today, today he was looking over air quality statistics, a usual topic after any kind of major attack. He'd then run some tests checking the purifiers and what efficiency they were running at, check to make sure there weren't any malfunctions brewing, and then write a report about everything. That part he never much cared for. At least the work kept him busy, kept him occupied, kept his mind wandering to places that he'd rather not drift into. The gloominess brought by memories of carnage were bad enough, but he oftentimes debated with himself if reminiscing of Earth's natural splendour was worse. Bluestreak once told him how Prowl hated talking about the Crystal Gardens. That place was something special indeed, Beachcomber went there every time he found himself visiting Praxis. He'd also seen it in ruins. There was a deep sense of sadness that overcame him as he wandered through the broken crystals, the remains of shards jutting out of the charred and melted grounds. It was likely the Autobot so many claimed as sparkless, didn't want to, or couldn't, deal with the pain that such memories gave him.

The morning chugged along at a reasonable pace. He was able to find his attention remaining focussed on the task at hand, his mind didn't drift to the past. Whether Cybertron or Earth. He didn't check his internal chronometer until he heard her voice drifting in softly, slightly accented, she was clearly engaged in a thoroughly interesting conversation with Perceptor. 1452hrs. Beachcomber grinned, decided he'd worked long enough, and stepped out of his measly office to see the new comer.

"Miri!"

Beaming, lifting his arms in greeting and optics glowing, not caring at all if he was being rude.

"BC. Oh my gosh! I had heard you were stationed in England".

"Don't know where you heard that rumour, but ain't a word of it truth".

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Ooh, you know, I bet you'd love to have a look at this. I was working over in Hawaii, when I came across this".

She lifted the chunk of rock up for his perusal. He squatted to take it gently from her grip.

"Perceptor's very interested in it, which I was right to think he would be. The humans obviously don't have the science or the money to tinker with this gem, but I thought given its readings and its weird properties, you guys would really appreciate it".

"You scanned this, Percy?"

"But of course. Miriam is quite correct. The sample is quite high in energon concentrate bindings, an unusual trait for any earthen composite mineral. Definitely beyond current human science, regardless of nationality. A thorough analysis will be needed, and Miriam has graciously gifted this sample to us for such a purpose. I do believe it is highly likely to yield promising results in our current energon investigations".

"Really, Miri? Christmas come early that you can start giving away prezzies now?"

"Well, you heard Perceptor, this thing is beyond human science, and quite frankly, I have enough paper weights".

"You found this on the mainland, I take it?"

"Actually, no. We were diving off the edge of the stop, were trying to find where the lava cracks were starting. A few of our sensors showed some recent activity around the North-Eastern edge of the stall. Water was stunning to swim in, but highly toxic. Went down there, poked about in shitty visibility and then found a bunch of rocks. Some useful, some pretty, some completely worthless, and this".

"Your bosses know you got this, I mean, you're not going to get in trouble sneaking us this piece?"

"Honestly, the way things are going over at that department, no one's going to notice, and if they do, they're not going to care. People don't' get paid enough to care about someone lifting a rock. Anyway, I did get permission to have it as a trinket".

"Well, I wouldn't want to make a criminal out of you".

He chuckled softly.

"Guessin' you want first dibs on this?"

Pivoting on his foot he offered the small rock to Perceptor, who was only too happy to take it. He lifted it from the geologist's hand, nodded politely to their human visitor and left. Mumbling to himself.

"He's getting worse?"

"Yeah. Been like that for a few years now".

"Mum said it started after dad passed".

"That's what the doc bot reckons".

"I wondered a lot if I should have visited more, especially after".

"Nah, don't guilt yourself, Miri, Percy has so much else going on, it's hard to really pin point this all down to that one event. Not diminishing your dad or nothing, but well, last few decades have been hard on everyone. Perce always buries himself in his work when he doesn't want to deal with those pesky emotions and junk".

"And how about you, BC? How've you been?"

A long drawn out sigh, followed by a smile that didn't really mean much.

"You know, same ole same ole, as the human idiom goes".

He shrugged and then flopped on the floor in front of her.

"I miss the greens, the blues, miss the life. I hate the fighting and the mindless destruction, especially when it seems ole Meg face doesn't have a purpose to it. Lot of chatter that maybe he's not in control any more, either of his troops or of his faculties".

"The footage from the attacks was playing everywhere when I passed through this morning".

"I wouldn't be surprised, there's not much else they play on the old idiot box any more…. You actually got a place to stay, and when you head back?"

"Well, those new tourist laws hit hard. I've got one week, which all things considered is probably plenty of time. Not much to see, not many people to visit, main reason was seeing you guys. Plus, I need to get home, the hubby's no good with all six of them. As for where I'm staying, got a hotel just outside the AB City zone, more like a bed & breakfast on an old farm. Quaint, friendly, affordable. And seems clean enough. Not much more you can hope for these days".

"That sounds comfy, wait, what… six now? As in six kids?"

"Hahah, yeah, didn't you get the email? Honestly, you may not have, she came early, we weren't sure if she was going to make it, but there by the grace of God, she pulled through. Spent a day short of four months in the hospital. They were great, though. Not like here. They would have just tossed her in the nearest garbage can after scooping out her organs. Hell, here I wouldn't have even been able to have two they would have burned my uterus out".

She noticed the strikingly uncomfortable look etched on his face plates.

"Sorry, I tend to get a bit animated about it. Hard to see what's become of America. Well, I guess you know that better than most".

"It is what it is, glad your kid is okay, name?"

"Koko".

"Nice. After your sister? What did she think of that?"

"Well, I hope she doesn't mind, I mean, it's not like we can ask her".

Another slightly confused look passed over the Autobot's face.

"Oh… didn't you know? I thought you may have. Koko died. In the New Delhi thing".

An extremely uncomfortable silence passed between them, neither sure how to break it for fear of seeming tactless. There was still honour, if not memory, to be given to the dead. Well, at least in civilised conversation, a rarity most days.

"Aww, I didn't know that, I'm real sorry, Miri".

"That's okay, I don't think many people knew, and to be honest, with that kind of death toll, individuals tend to get lost. She went in a mass grave, we know where she is, but it doesn't seem right to ask them to dig her up just so we can cremate her and stash her ashes back home. Plus, you know, there's still a lot of fear over what happened, the contamination of the bodies, that sort of thing".

"Even Ratchet was a little weirded out by it all, none of us had any answers, and I know Perceptor gave it an awful lot of time. No idea that Koko…"

Voice trailing off, as with both hands he cupped his face.

"Primus damn this world, sometimes".

"Him and God both".

Extending her arm, she placed her hand on the highest point of his leg she could reach.

He offered a small, albeit sincere, smile.

"In other news, perhaps somewhat more light-hearted, I heard an interesting rumour. Maybe you already know about it?"

"Always up for some goss".

His smile a little cheerier, even if his tanks still churned.

"The young master Witwicky is back state-side. Full time, too, from what I heard".

"I did not hear that, and if anyone else had that sort of intel would be all around base by now… who told you that?"

There was almost a hint of suspect disbelief in his voice, but he tried to dim it down as not to offend her.

"It's slightly complicated. So, Carly's parents, her father had a sister, that sister had a child who is very close with Carly's parents. The child being Carly's cousin, yeah? So, the complicated bit, is that cousin had a child, daughter, also, all different last names because they took their husband's when they married. Now, she's also extremely close, or rather was, with Carly's mother. She kept abreast of all the goings on with Daniel. I met the cousin's daughter while she was visiting for a family reunion, and I was in the area for business, and we really hit it off, to the point we kept correspondence, because, who doesn't want a pen pal in England? Actually, it was Wales at the time. So, through that slightly convoluted mess, I heard that Daniel is somewhere on the West Coast. Not sure where, just that he's an English teacher. Also, the cousin's daughter, Ester, she's a real gossip".

"Oh".

"Just oh?"

"Never thought he'd come back, to be honest".

"It's a strange place to want to come back, home or not, the place is the economic equivalent of a seriously blocked toilet, and it's not like English teachers are in high demand. Yet, that's what Ester said was happening, with that said, she has a history of getting the wrong end of the stick".

"Maybe not, it does seem like the kind of thing you don't mishear. Well, maybe the English teacher bit".

"You could always have Red or Jazz run a security check, if you guys were that interested".

"We always kind of decided to leave the boy be. Prime was apparently quite insistent. His parents are dead because of our war. He was just a kid, you know. He deserved a normal childhood. Well, that was sort of the unspoken decision".

"Yeah, but so were Spike and Carly when they got involved".

"I wanna say different times, but I think we all know that's bullshit".

"War's pretty shitty, huh?"

"Understatement of the vorn, Miriam, understatement of the vorn".

ooOOoo


End file.
